The Music Within
by Fireside
Summary: A message written on the mirror. A body showing signs of aggression. An empty stage. Multiple suspects. Can Joan and Sherlock get to the bottom of this one?
1. Overture

Chapter 1: Overture

"Can you tell me again why we're in front of the David H. Koch Theater ?" Joan asked, stifling a yawn.

* * *

She had woken up exactly 35 minutes before, only to see Sherlock holding out two dresses for her.

"I didn't know you were interested in fashion." She asked, glancing from one dress to the other. "I could lent them to you if you want, although I don't think purple is your color."

"Very funny, Watson. Capitan Gregson's just called, apparently he wants us to have a look at a rather peculiar crime scene, one that involves expensive clothing and lots of dancing."

"Um, a club?"

"No, you silly." He sighs then looks at watch. "Hurry up, you've got exactly 20 minutes to use the toilet and get dressed and another 5 minutes to enjoy your breakfast."

"Do I have to wear a dress? It's the middle of November, I can't really get a tan." She throws the covers away and gets out of the bed in one swift move.

"It's up to you." Sherlock shrugs, heading for the hallway. "But I like the navy one, it goes well with your eyes." He says simply before closing the door.

Another 25 seconds pass before Joan is able to process his words. Sherlock Holmes, telling her that she looks nice in a dress, that it goes well with her eyes, that _he_ likes it. She takes the dress and studies it in the mirror. It's not something too elegant, but it's beautiful nonetheless. A simple knee length v-neck dress, why would he like it so much?

He still manages to surprise her with all his little quirks, even after months of living in the same house. He is just like that, once you think you know something about him, he goes out of his way to prove that you haven't got the slightest idea what he's up to or what he's thinking about. Joan smiled to herself. It was one of the many reasons she enjoyed working with him so much.

* * *

"Obviously, we're not here to see Swan Lake." She looked around, rubbing her hands to warm herself a bit.

"Actually, we are." Sherlock opened the main door for her and they were soon greeted by Marcus Bell and Capitan Gregson.

"Morning, fellas!" he said cheerfully.

"How did you get here so fast?" the former asked the consulting detective and his companion, eyeing them suspiciously.

"Bell, take it easy, I called them personally. I want Sherlock to have a look at something. Follow me, please. We're taking the short route." Gregson awkwardly climbed the stage and disappeared behind the velvet curtain as Joan and Sherlock exchanged amused glances.

"You coming?" he inquired ceremoniously, extending an arm.

"I'd rather take the stairs, thank you" she gestured towards the small steps almost hidden from view.

"Suit yourself."

Joan rolled her eyes, but soon found herself frozen in the middle of the stage, a familiar feeling dwelling inside her chest. She look around, imagining hundreds upon hundreds of elegantly dressed people, all waiting anxiously for the lights to go off and the music to sweep away all their worries, even if just for a short period of time. Three loud gongs would pierce the air, silencing the crowd, before the...

"Joan?"

She blinked twice, suddenly being reminded of the task at hand. She was here on a case with Sherlock, long gone were the days when that was everything she dreamed of. _"Focus, damn it." _They entered a dark hallway and the feeling vanished as soon as it had come.

"Don't tell me you wanted to be a ballerina." Sherlock casually pulled out his phone, surfing the web for the latest news, just in case something of interest might show up.

"Well yeah. I was convinced I was going to be the next big thing when I was 6. " she shrugged. "I guess I was surprised to find myself here years later after having given up on that idea."

It wasn't long before they caught up with Gregson, who waiting for them outside the girls' locker.

"Did you stop to give a performance?" he raised a brow.

"You'd be surprised to know what I'm capable of" Sherlock said without looking up.

"Wa-"

"Capitan please" Joan stopped him just in time. "What are we dealing with?"

"First of all-"

"Meredith Blackwell, 22 years old was found dead by the cleaning a few hours ago. Quite a prolific ballerina from what I gather." Sherlock finally put the phone in his pocket. Gresgson cursed under his breath.

Finally, he was beginning to focus on the case, Joan thought studying his countenance. Her gaze lingered for a tad more, enough for Sherlock to notice she had been staring at him. She was glad he decided against making a comment.

"Huh, already made the papers, I see. Come take a look at the crime scene. We haven't ruled out the possibility of suicide, as everything points towards that. Let me know what you two think."

Joan was the first to go inside.

The room was dimly lit. Quiet and cold. Unnaturally quiet. Remains of furniture were scattered across the room. Pieces of broken glass shone curiously at every single step. Make up products stood out from the many personal effects of the body. No suicide victim would ever put up this kind of fight.

The body was in the center of the room, lying on the back, eyes open, surrounded by a dozen of pills. Her white costume was torn apart and almost completely soaked with blood. The ex-surgeon grimaced. There was something unusual going on. She wasn't taken aback by the sight of slashed wrists or by the unusual color of the victim's skin or even by the wound just below her jugular. She's seen them one too many times. Yet, just a few feet away, on the remains of a smashed mirror, 2 words written in blood caught her attention. She stepped closer and felt a cold shiver run down her spine.

_FOR SWAN_

She glanced back over her shoulder, in time to see a small smile plastered over Sherlock's face.

"Now_ this_ is definitely worth my time."

* * *

**I'm back...sorta. **

**So here you have it, an Elementary fic. Should I go on?**


	2. Lacrimosa

Chapter Two: Lacrimosa

" What have you gathered so far, Watson?" Sherlock put on a pair of gloves and began to examine a broken piece of glass, turning it on either side, before moving over to the remains of a vanity table.

"Well, I've had like _two minutes _to actually examine the crime scene but it's definitely not a suicide."

"What makes you say that?"

"First of all, you wouldn't have been interested in it if it turned out to be something as ordinary as a suicide." She pulled out a small camera from her purse. They would have to go over the evidence at least once more so this was an efficient way of preserving clues.

"And secondly, the victim clearly died as the result of the neck wound. She couldn't have been conscious for more than a minute after that so it must have happened in this room. Had she done it herself, the weapon should have been somewhere nearby. "

"We found a note." Bell walked in just as the camera went off. "We had it analyzed, it's not a forgery. " He handed it over to Sherlock.

"It's not reliable" he said as soon as he finished reading it.

"Why not, it's written by Meredith herself."

"You mean it's written by a confused Meredith who was under the influence of multiple drugs" he said, holding up two bottles of pills. "Her vision was cloudy, not to mention her left hand was shaking." Bell gave him a disbelieving look.

"And you know that because...?"

"Oh for Christ's sake. Just look at the shape of the letters."

" These are the main after effects of Perox." She took the bottle from Sherlock. "Why was she still taking it? I thought it was off the market after that huge scandal with the Union."

"It is. You can't find buy those anymore legally. She must've been really desperate. After all, she was a ballerina suffering from Vertigo. Not exactly an ideal situation."

"So? This doesn't prove she didn't kill herself. "

"There's no weapon here." Joan looked around to further her point.

"She could have just thrown it somewhere. We'll find it soon enough."

"No, you won't." Sherlock kneeled next to the body, retrieving a pocket knife from his jacket.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Look at the shape of the wound. It was made with one steady movement, like this." He pointed at it with the knife then drew a line in the air. "She could, of course, have made it herself, but that's not the case. Somebody managed to restrain her from behind before killing her."

"There's no evidence to support that."

"On the contrary." He pulled up a sleeve, revealing her shoulder. "Watson, what do these bruises tell you?"

"He's right. She was indeed retrained." She added after looking at the purple spots herself. "How did you know they would be there?"

"Lucky guess." He shrugged. "I've seen a similar one. The angle of the wound was exactly the same."

"Don't tell me it was another ballerina."

"It wasn't." His face was devoid of any expression. "It was Irene."

"Sherlock-"

"Sorry to ruin your fun, guys. We have to take the body to the morgue. "Gregson cut in. "I need to have a word with you, Bell. We should-"

They kept talking, but Joan wasn't paying attention anymore. She watched as a couple of policemen threw a blanket over the girl's lifeless body, put her on a tray and carried her out of the room. She just couldn't forget her face: cold, a frozen mask displaying one of her last emotions. Was it fear? Or something else? Joan couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"We should take a look around. Maybe we find something noteworthy."

She felt it in his voice. He wasn't looking at her.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

Her heart stopped as he turned around. The same expressionless eyes, the same bleakness. It was too late. He'd already put up barriers between the two of them, shielding himself from the rest of the world. He'd repressed that memory for a long time and now every thought was like a blade, threatening to reopen old scars and open new ones at the same time. She couldn't stand seeing him fight that battle alone, not when she knew what was at stake.

"Never been better." Even his voice sounded distant, as if he was slowly starting to slip away from her fingers.

She didn't want to lose him, not after he'd finally started to open up. It was selfish of her, she knew that. He didn't belong to her, he wasn't hers to lose, but he deserved better than this, he deserved to be happy. She clenched her fists, wishing she could reach him somehow and pull him away from the darkness that he was sinking into.

* * *

Hours later, they were back at the Brownstone, going over possible scenarios of the murder.

" We still haven't been to her house nor talked with any of her friends or relatives." Joan glanced at the orange crackling fire, already beginning to feel exhausted.

"The theatre is closed today, for obvious reasons. We'll go back tomorrow when the other ballet dancers will be rehearsing for the upcoming show and talk with them. She was bound to have made some enemies. She was playing the White Swan, after all."

"You don't think some of her colleagues killed her just to get the part." Joan said as she heard a buzzing sound. Soon enough she realised it was her own phone, laying on the table across the room. Groaning, she got up, wondering who would call her on a Sunday afternoon.

"It's premature to rule that scenario out at this stage of the investigation."

Well that was unexpected.

"Hi mom, long time no see."

"_Hi darling. Your brother called. He said he's in town a few days so I thought we could all have dinner at The Oyster tonight. I've made reservations for 6 o'clock for 4 people. I might be late as I have a meeting but you could bring your boss as well and have a nice evening out."_

"Well, he's not exactly my boss." Joan glanced at Sherlock, thinking of a noun to describe their current relationship. "I, uh, don't know if I can come, I mean, it's so sudden." She frowned when she heard strange noises coming from the kitchen. Of course, Sherlock was no longer in the living room. How could he move so swiftly?

"_I know, I've only found out too. Please Joan, you and your brother haven't exactly been in the best of terms lately so don't miss this opportunity. It would make me really happy."_

Damn.

"Fine, I'll do my best. See you soon."

"_Bye, Joanie."_

* * *

It didn't come as a surprise that Sherlock couldn't be persuaded to come, but he insisted that she should go and spend some time with her family. After all, he said, there wasn't much to be done on that particular day so she could as well go and have fun.

Mark and Joan had started to drift apart long before she had quit being a surgeon, but that piece of news surely didn't help improve their relationship. She felt uneasy. Mark was just like their mother and that could be a trait or a flaw, depending on the situation. Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe she could actually have fun with her little brother for once.

She got out of the cab, spotting a familiar silhouette in the distance.

* * *

As soon as night began to settle in, a new energy spread through the air. People from all walks of life were seemingly wandering aimlessly through the streets, seduced by the flashing lights and the vigour of the darkness. You could easily get lost in this cacophony of sounds and smells, the very rhythm of the pulsating city. She closed her eyes, wishing she could breathe in some of that refreshing essence, feel it pump inside her veins. Here, among the ever moving crowd, they looked just like two strangers, brought together in the same place by error. She slowly counted to three before she called his name and walked in his direction.

"Um hi." Joan pulled him in for a hug. "Guess mom couldn't make it, huh."

"She said she had something to take care of. Your, eh, boss was busy too?" Mark ran his fingers through his hair, looking just as nervous as she did.

"We're in the middle of a case, he's working now."

"So..."

"Yeah..."

They hadn't seen each other in more than 2 years and she couldn't think of a single thing to say to him.

"Why don't we go inside?" he suggested. "I heard the food's excellent."

"Sure, go ahead. I'll be right behind you."

She pulled out her phone, going through the list of contacts.

_I'm scared. This is going to be a disaster._

She didn't understand why she pressed the send button or why she was sending the message to Sherlock in the first place. She was acting irrationally, there was nothing to be afraid of. She would calm down and behave like a grown up.

Yeah right. This was going to be one long evening.

* * *

** Yay, I've actually written two chapters. Thoughts on this one?**

**Also, Perox doesn't exist. I've made it up.**


End file.
